OZZIE TAYLOR HAD JUST GONE all in on the biggest dice throw of his young life. Now, as he jaunted up Broadway checking the keys of his new purchase for grease, he went over his daring plan again. Word around the Tenderloin District was that the Clef Club Orchestra was looking for an oboe player, so he’d decided to give his dream a shot by trading in his father’s clarinet for the used oboe that had been collecting dust for months in the window of Old Man Groemann’s Pawn Shop. The proprietor, a fat German who stank of vinegar and sauerkraut and once played tuba in a Prussian band for some big shot named Bismarck, had tried to chase him out, yelling through his bushy mustache that the oboe was a white man’s instrument, too difficult for a colored boy with no proper musical schooling. But after an hour of badgering, Herr Grumps had finally thrown up his arms in surrender.
Ever since he could remember—and that was the last eight of the twelve years he’d been on this earth—Ozzie had set his heart on playing for the most famous Negro conductor in the world, Mister James Reese Europe. Big Jim, as he was known around the Tenderloin, took only the best black musicians into his Clef Club. But once you got signed, you made better wages than the white performers and played the private dance parties of the Astors and Vanderbilts. No washing dishes or moving pianos on the side, either. Rumor was that the Club raked in over a hundred thousand dollars in commissions last year alone. No sir, he’d never again have to shine shoes or play minstrel show tunes for street donations.
Yeah, Big Jim Europe was his ticket to the big time, all right. Big Jim and Li’l Ozzie had a nice ring to it. Kinda like Cole and Johnson, or Williams and Walker.
Buying that oboe had put one problem behind him, but another one still awaited solving. Even if he practiced day and night, how was he ever gonna get Big Jim to notice him? When he talked about his dream, the older boys who threw pennies against the curb on 125th Street just laughed and scoffed that he’d have a better chance of getting a tryout for the Giants than weaseling past the bouncers down at the Marshall Hotel, where Big Jim held court.
Now that he thought about it, that famous brownstone establishment was only a couple of blocks away. Why not head over there for a little shoe-leather reconnaissance?
When he reached West 53rd Street, the situation looked bleak. Even if he somehow managed to con his way into the lobby of the Marshall, a gauntlet of Clef Club tough guys sat loitering around the stairway that led to Big Jim’s second-floor suite, checking union cards and chasing off all the slummers and alley cats. Big Jim was so popular that he had to move in stealth whenever he traveled across the city. Rumor was that he would leave a concert in mid-set, hand the baton to his assistant director, and rush off to a waiting car to be whisked off to another concert in progress in another part of the city. Then he would enter the next venue with great fanfare and take the baton for a few sets before repeating the ritual. Yeah, Big Jim had performed his escape trick more times than Houdini.
Seeing how the Marshall’s lobby entrance was guarded tighter than the Gates of Heaven, Ozzie slung his head in defeat and walked back north up Broadway toward Harlem. Tooting his oboe occasionally, he waited for the trolley car to pass, and when the street was clear again, he looked up and stared at a flyer posted on a lamppost:
Grand Musical Melange and Dance Fest
James Reese Europe and his Clef Club Orchestra
9 p.m. Manhattan Casino, West 155th Street and Eight Avenue
Tickets still available for tonight
Every big hat in the city would be there, he knew. He fantasized about sitting in the Casino pit, waiting for Big Jim to gesture the baton at him to come in strong for the finale of Shoe-Fly Regiment. He glanced over his shoulder, toward a drugstore across the street. Dodging traffic, he ran over and pressed his face against the window. The clock inside was about to chime nine. The guests in their snappy black-tie togs and flowing evening gowns would be arriving at the Casino any moment now, stepping out of their covered carriages and automobiles like European royalty.
He shook his head at the impossibility of the idea. Ducats for Big Jim’s dance concerts ran up to fifty bucks, if you could find them. Heck, that was more than he’d ever made in a month. Man, but that basketball floor would be jammed and the foundations shaking tonight. He had been inside the Casino only once, to see some of the local legends take on the club team from the Abyssinian Baptist Church. His uncle, Clayton, used to hand out towels in the men’s room and—
He stopped blowing the oboe in mid-note, struck by the invisible hand of genius. He took off north on a run, cradling the instrument in the crease of his left arm while checking his pocket to confirm that he still had his nickel.
Five blocks uptown, he slipped into the alley behind Gooden’s Laundry. When no one was looking, he pilfered a small bale of linens from the delivery cart and hid it under his coat. A white cap with the establishment’s name on the front rested on the driver’s seat. He slapped it on his head and hurried down Broadway toward the Sixty-Sixth Street subway station. Flying down the stairs, he decided to save the nickel and ran past the ticket clerk. Before the grumpy Italian could corral him, he jumped on the arriving train bound for Harlem. As the doors closed behind him, several passengers stared at his bloated stomach.
He drove them toward the far end of the car by practicing a few notes.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, OZZIE BOUNDED out the subway car and clambered up the stairs to 155th Street. At the top step, he stood staring at a herd of human glitter converging on the canopied entrance to the Manhattan Casino. Tapping the top of his head to make sure he was still wearing the Gooden Laundry cap, he hid the oboe under his jacket and stuffed the bale of linens under his arm. Now set for the dangerous foray, he elbowed his way through the crowd and shouted, “Delivery! Delivery!”
A guard at the door stopped him. “Where do you think you're going?”
“Linens.”
“Who ordered linens?”
“Mister James Reese Europe.”
The guard debated that unlikely claim. “Lemme see the invoice.”
Ozzie put on his best street jive razzle-dazzle. “Invoice? You think we charge Mister Europe? Lord Almighty, if you’re telling me we need to start charging Mr. Europe for his linens, well, then, I’ll go back and tell my boss man. But I’m gonna need your name, ’cause there’ll be a mighty ruckus stirred if Mr. Europe has to go out and perform without his linens. He sweats a mighty lot, they tell me, and if he don’t have his linens handy, the pages of the music liable to get drenched, and if that happens, the notes on the page liable to run, and them musicians will get all off the tracks, and Lord Almighty, Mr. Europe is gonna wanna know why—”
“All right, all right!” The guard’s eyes were nearly spinning from trying to follow the frenetic explanation. “If you’re not back in ten minutes, popcorn mouth, this rumble stick is gonna be barking for your head.”
Ozzie hid a wily grin as he darted into the dance auditorium. He walked ramrod straight to hide the oboe under his jacket behind his back. The scene on the Casino’s parquet floor nearly took his breath away. The banisters and Arabian arches were hung with bunting, and the boards shimmered under the dozens of oriental lanterns that swung from the rafters. He reckoned at least three thousand people had already crammed inside, Negroes and whites both. Everyone was flitting from table to table, dancing and spinning with elegant drinks in their hands while the band stewards spread powder across the boards to keep them from becoming slippery. The couples looked to be trying out a new dance, cheek-to-cheek with slow steps mingled with quick retreats. The band was playing Too Much Mustard, but the number sounded different. More bounce and syncopation, with maybe a sassy uplift here from the fretted strings, followed by an occasional violin or cornet solo.
His eyes widened as they traveled across the array of musicians that he worshipped. Over yonder was Will Marian Cook, the eccentric composer and king of black musicals, tapping tables with his finger to correct the beat. And next to him stood Scott Joplin, drowning his bitterness at the bar with shots of whiskey. Jelly Roll Morton, up from New Orleans to play gigs, was glad-handing folks and setting up high-stakes pool games.
He migrated along the wall, staying out of sight, and at last he got a glimpse of the Clef Club musicians sitting below a raised platform at the far end of the auditorium. There had to be more than a hundred in the ensemble: eight violins, nine cellos, nearly thirty mandolins and banjos, all backed up by ten pianos. His heart raced: two clarinets sat where the oboe would be.
Big Jim hadn’t filled the spot yet.
And even better, an assistant conductor was still warming up the tune boys.
He rode the wave of dancers until he reached the door that led into the rear dressing room. He held up the bale of linens as evidence and with a devil-may-care attitude, marched toward the three bouncers. “Linens for Mr. Europe! Linens for Mr. James Reese Europe!”
One of the dragons guarding the cave stepped in front of the door. “I’ll give them to him.”
Ozzie debated his options. If he charged the pile driver, he knew his scraggly frame wouldn’t put a dent into the dandied tough who stood festooned in baggy Oxford pants and sported a fedora slanted coolly across his head. But he hadn’t come this far just to be turned away so close to the gold. “Okay, boss.” He offered up the twined linens, and when they were nearly in the man’s reach, he dropped them and feigned horror. “Oh, no. Mr. Europe ain’t gonna like dirtied towels.”
The door bouncer looked down in disgust at the white linens, soiled by the floor soot. He yelled at Ozzie, “You shit-for-brains little burrhead!”
Ozzie took a step back. “I’d best be gettin’ back to my cart.”
“The hell you will! I ain’t taking these soiled wipers into Big Jim. He’d fire me on the spot.” The bouncer picked up the linens and shoved them into Ozzie’s hands. “Get in there and take the heat yourself.”
Ozzie kept his gaze lowered in mock shame as he stepped inside. The door slammed behind him. The room was dark, lit only by a solitary candle on the corner desk. He looked up and saw, standing at the mirror, an image of what God Hisself mighta looked like if He were six-foot-five and wore a long cutaway tailcoat, a matching cummerbund, a bow tie, and striped trousers.
Big Jim turned slowly, his massive frame held as regally as a pharaoh. He set his fearsome large eyes, washed in red from fatigue, on the pint-sized stranger who stood at his door.
Ozzie’s mouth went inoperative. Suddenly, recovering his wits, he dropped the bale of linens and pulled the oboe out from behind his back.
Big Jim’s eyes bulged in terror. “Don’t shoot me! I’ll pay you double what Dab Jordan gave you! It was just one night, I swear! His wife came on sweet to me!”
Ozzie put the oboe’s mouthpiece to his lips and began playing the Clef Club Chant.
Big Jim squinted across the dimmed room. His hands, clutching his chest, slowly migrated toward his ears, where they came to rest over his bulbous lobes. “Stop! Stop!”
Ozzie was tooting so loud that he didn’t hear the command—until Big Jim came lunging across the room and yanked the oboe from his hands.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Oswald Taylor, sir, and—”
The door flew open. The sentry, hearing the noise, burst in. His eyes narrowed at the linens on the floor and the oboe in Big Jim’s hands. “You okay, boss?”
“Collect your week’s pay,” Europe told the bouncer. “You’re off the payroll.”
The terminated guard glared a silent warning at Ozzie that they’d meet again, and soon.
When the door slammed, Big Jim poured himself a drink from a bottle of vodka to calm his nerves. “Oswald Taylor, you say? You’re that urchin that plays for cup droppings down at the Armory. You need to undercut the third hole on that old clarinet of yours. It’s out of pitch.”
Ozzie was stunned. “How do you know me?”
“I make it my business to know every jiver from the Bowery to the Bronx who picks up an instrument. I also know when a street tooter is pulling my leg. You’ve never touched an oboe before today, have you, boy?”
“I’m a fast learner.”
Europe pulled a sheet of music from a stack on his dresser and set it on a stand in front of Ozzie. “Play that, fast learner.”
Ozzie stared blankly at the hieroglyphics on the page. “I plays from the heart. Like you do.”
“Plays from the heart? Hell, you’re no different than the damn white folk who think my orchestra’s too damn stupid to read music.” Big Jim bent down and got into Ozzie’s face. “You spread the word out there to those horn sharkies on San Juan Hill! Nobody, and I mean nobody, gets into my band unless they read! And stand up straight and speak like a gentleman! Slouching all around like you’re in a minstrel show! You know why I have so many mandolins and banjos in my orchestra?”
Ozzie braced to attention. “The boys around town say it’s to kick the lift.”
Outraged, Europe got into the boy’s face again. “Kick the lift? Hell, I don’t need to kick no lift! I have to employ so many goddamn strings because the white aristocrats like the Astors and the Vanderbilts don’t want colored folk touching their grand pianos in the goddamn parlors!”
Ozzie heard the orchestra outside slide into the Clef Club March, the traditional moment when Big Jim always made his grand entrance. He knew he didn’t have much time. “Give me a chance, Mister Europe.”
“I don’t hire alley honkers.”
Ozzie felt the blood rise in his temples. This man, he realized, was nothing like his reputation for being magnanimous and caring for other musicians. He was just a money-grubber like Marian Cook and the rest of those Uncle Toms who’d made it big giving white folk what they wanted. If he was going to get kicked out to the bins, he figured might as well give Big Deal Jim a piece of his mind. “Good thing you weren’t around here eight years ago.”
Perplexed by that cryptic denunciation, Europe turned. “Why’s that?”
“You wouldn’t have hired yourself.”
Europe narrowed his big eyes at the indictment, which was as nonsensical as it sounded. “You got some mouth on you, boy.”
But Ozzie was on a righteous roll, figuring he had nothing to lose by testifying to the truth. “Yeah, you’re all high and mighty now. But you weren’t no better than me back in those days. Just an Alabama shucker, come up from Washington with your classical violin and thinking you were gonna burn down Carnegie Hall. Yeah, I know all about you! Couldn’t get a job in an orchestra, either. So you pitched a tent on the Tenderloin streets and played saloons for meals. Got lucky, is all.”
“Lucky?”
“Damn right!” Ozzie kicked the bale of linens across the room, sending towels flying everywhere. He grabbed his oboe back from Europe and huffed toward the door.
“Rag.”
As Ozzie turned the doorknob, he spun back. “What’d you say?”
“Kicking a lift,” Europe said calmly. “They’re calling it Rag now. The white bands don’t know how to do it. You learn the fundamentals, free yourself up tonally. The secret is in the way the instrument is handled. I couldn’t teach it even if I wanted to. Comes from our ancestors in Africa. The spirits play through us.” He cocked an ear to the music in the auditorium just beyond the wall. “What pattern do you hear out there?”
Ozzie listened for a moment. “AA … BB … A … CC … DD.”
Europe nodded. “First strain uses fast sixteenth notes. Shifts between minor and major keys.”
“The second section sounds like a march.”
Big Jim was slapping his palms on his thighs. “Build them up, then give them the punch in the gut. Third strain. Let the instrumentation fight it out, and bring in the drums.”
Ozzie tapped his foot to the beat. “Fourth coming now. Your mama’s jam.”
Big Jim picked up his baton and, closing his eyes, began conducting Ozzie as if he were the entire orchestra. “Keep the reins tight, but let ‘em prance a bit.”
Ozzie closed his eyes, feeling the oboe in his hands and playing it silently. “Here comes the cornet. Everything’s relaxing, and yet it’s building to the big boom. There’s the drums.”
Big Jim cut the air with a slash of his baton to bring in the wild climax. Smiling through a look of ecstasy, he opened his eyes and glared at the boy. He saw that Ozzie had tears from the effect of the music. “How old are you, Oswald Taylor?”
Ozzie wiped the mist of emotion from his eyes. “Twelve, sir.”
“You can’t play that oboe worth a damn.”
“I knows it.”
Europe pulled a business card from his vest pocket. “This will get you into the Marshall. You come hang around and pester the boys over there to teach you how to read the sheets.”
Ozzie stared at the precious Clef Club ticket. “I don’t know how to repay you, Mister Jim.”
Europe took a last glance in the mirror to adjust his starched collar. “Oh, you’ll repay me, all right. I’m a businessman first and a musician second. You seem to have a talent for getting past doormen. I want you to infiltrate the other colored concert halls and clubs. Report back to me on who sounds good and what the competition is playing.”
“You mean … like a spy?”
Bracing to be engulfed in a wave of wild applause, Europe tapped Ozzie on the head with his baton as he walked past. At the door, the bandleader turned with a wink. “That oboe of yours overblows at the octave. A clarinet overblows at the twelfth. Remember that, and you won’t have to learn two different sets of fingerings.”
Left alone in the Big Jim’s dressing room, Ozzie was about to test that advice on the oboe when he caught a fleeting glimpse, through the cracked door, of the fired bouncer in the hall outside. The brute was flexing his meaty fingers in anticipation of getting revenge. Ozzie had hoped to watch Big Jim play the wand to the big crowd during a few numbers, but he decided it might be more advantageous for his budding career if he exited the casino on the quick through the small window above the radiator that led into the back alley.